


on the road til the end of time

by goodboots



Series: on the run [2]
Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jessica Kilgrave Hero Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-10-27 22:51:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10818408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodboots/pseuds/goodboots
Summary: The day she discovers it works on him, her knees go weak and she has to reach out and clutch his arm to keep standing.She'd told him to freeze, and he'd literally obeyed, stock-still. The only movement was his eyes blinking rapidly."No," she says, meaning, no, no, this can’t be happening. "No, don’t, you can move."He snaps back to himself, and says "did you just—" with his eyebrows raised in disbelief."I didn’t mean to," she says, terrified of what this means."I believe that’s my line."





	on the road til the end of time

**Author's Note:**

> back by popular demand! AKA this is easily the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written (but also if this ship upsets you I am genuinely cautioning you not to read this. This is fluff in the pairing that is canon rapist/victim, I am aware how not good that is). This follows on from a story where Jessica and Kilgrave go on the road as a hero duo temporarily, and end up in a fairly twisted 'we are so damaged' relationship.

Sometimes, she really envies the Avengers. Not the world-saving stuff; that seems exhausting, and even though she’s semi-indestructible, she’s still no Captain America.

"But having a home base," she says. She’s soaking in the ridiculous hotel jacuzzi bathtub, with her phone carefully balanced on the ledge. "That wouldn’t be the worst. City limits protection radius, instead of ‘oh there’s a serial killer in Melbourne so now we’re going to Melbourne.’ I’m kinda jealous. Also, bodega cats."

Trish snorts in response, audible even over speakerphone. "Jessica, don’t pretend you don’t love the globe-trotting. You sent me forty-seven texts from Cairo about how cool the pyramids are."

"They were cool!"

"I’m just saying, all you talked about when we were kids was seeing the world. I’m glad you’re finally getting to do it, you know, circumstances aside."

Circumstances is their code for _circumstances_. Trish isn’t delusional, she knows Jessica isn’t just on some whirlwind adventure for the fun of it, but she rarely bring it up except to occasionally verify that Jessica still has her own free will.

"Yeah, the travelling life is pretty decent. No complaints from me." She’s not tired of it either, she just doesn’t know how to explain. The last couple months have felt like she’s waiting for something to change, but she doesn’t know whether to be excited for or scared of whatever it is. 

"And the captive? Any complaints?"

"Only about the weather," Jessica sighs. "Alaska in February is brutal. I miss sunlight, and I don’t think Toronto will be much better. Actually, I should go, we’ve got an early flight out," she says, and makes her goodbyes.

She dries off and drains the tub, and blow-dries her hair just to get the dampness out, because he’ll give her shit about going to sleep with wet hair. 

When she emerges, all the lights are off in the suite except for the lamp on the nightstand. Kilgrave’s stretched out on top of the comforter, shirtless and wearing mauve striped pyjama bottoms she’s never seen before. He’s got a book cracked open in his hands and reading glasses perched on his nose. 

"How’s Patricia?" he asks, carefully neutral. He deeply dislikes Trish, and thinks he hides it very well. 

"Fine. Apparently the subway’s still fucked up through midtown from the Dr Doom thing last week," Jessica says, spying the matching pyjama top folded on the corner armchair. She shucks off her bathrobe in its favour, and when she turns around, his glasses have slipped halfway down his nose, the book forgotten. 

"Of course it is, nothing gets fixed quickly in this country. The French are on strike every other day but at least their trains still function."

Jessica broaches the subject carefully, as always. "Trish’s show has a two-week break in April," she says, settling into bed beside him. She gives her pillow a good thump to fluff it up. "She’s going to Florida, so I might go meet up with her for a few days, if we’ve got any downtime."

He makes a non-committal sound and bookmarks his place in the paperback, sets it aside.

It’s only February, and it’s almost useless to plans so far in advance when their schedule is so tenuous, but she likes to put these things out there way ahead of time, so he can get used to the idea. Every time she leaves, she knows he fears she won’t return; just like she fears he won’t be there for her to return to.

"What does that look mean?"

"Would you rather go see her in New York? I know you miss it."

She shrugs. She's never been back to New York, for obvious reasons. "Sometimes I do. But it’s a trade-off, right? I couldn’t have this if we went back to stay."

His serious expression softens, as close as they ever get to acknowledging what _this_ is. God, between him and Trish, she has a lot of unspoken shit going on in her life.

He clicks off the nightstand night and rolls over, sliding his arm over her waist and tucking her into the curve of his body. 

"Smooth," she says, settling against him. He smells good. New cologne to go with the new pyjamas, probably, as if she’s gonna be impressed by any of that.

"I thought so," he replies, and presses a kiss against the back of her head. "Sleep well, Jessica."

#

They’re in Canada for six weeks—official business only lasts two, but she’s had a tipoff about some supers in Montreal, and it takes a while to make friendly contact—and then a month in Argentina, mostly for the weather.

She’s not going to lie and say her life isn’t comfortable. Of course it is, of course she’s insanely lucky that it all worked out so well. That doesn’t mean she lets her guard down. That feeling of disaster around every corner hasn’t let up, and they literally fight crime for a living, so her version of ‘disaster’ is subjective.

In Buenos Aires, a waiter slips and spills half a carafe of red wine down the back of Kilgrave’s suit jacket and the world goes to tunnel vision; Jessica jumps up, ready to intervene, but his face only darkens for a moment. Then he swallows and waives the man off with a quiet but firm "it’s fine, never mind, forget about it." 

"You okay?" she asks, wary. She’s ready to punch him in the throat if he makes a move against anyone in this restaurant.

He shrugs out of his soppy jacket, mops up what he can with his napkin. "Sticky and irritated," he mutters, but his eyes hold that modicrum of warmth reserved just for her. "I know, I know, telling that oaf to go stab his own eyes out wouldn’t make me dry again. You can save your lecture."

"I wasn’t gonna—" she starts, but yes, she totally was.

"You were," he insists, and says severely, "are you ever going to learn to trust me, Jessica Jones?"

She laughs at him, says "never," and presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

"Bring us another litre," she tells a passing waiter, and thinks nothing of it when the wine appears at her elbow instantly. 

#

It takes her a long time to realize. Too long, really. 

#

They’re in Chicago, twenty minutes out from a meeting with two Interpol agents. Something about art thieves; she wasn’t really listening to Kilgrave’s briefing over breakfast, but she knows this is one of those non-life-threatening jobs, the kind of petty criminals that make him extra disdainful, so it should be relatively simple.

It’s so ordinary. It’s a Tuesday—she’ll remember that later, even though the rest of the week dissolves into chaos quickly—

And some guy on the street steps out in front of her. He’s wearing a fluorescent green vest and holding a clipboard, and he asks loudly if he can have a minute of her time. 

"Sorry, no," she says, following Kilgrave down the block.

"Too busy to save the planet? Come on, lady, the coral reefs are dying, you’ve got five minutes for that."

Because a few years of travel and relative comfort haven’t totally civilized her, she replies "Go suck your own dick, fuckface," which, fine, is not really her standard for clever comebacks, but it’s early in the day.

Kilgrave mutters, "was that really necessary?" and she smiles, pleased at getting under his skin.

The traffic light changes before they can cross the street and they’re stuck in the intersection. 

"Shit," she says, lifting his wrist to check the time on his watch, "do we have the number for these guys, or are they all cool and European about being late? Because we’re definitely going to be late."

"Jessica," Kilgrave says sharply, frowning over her shoulder, "do you see that?"

She turns around. Half a block up the street, directly in front of an ATM, the canvasser who shouted at her is sprawled out on the sidewalk. He’s bent in half, trying to—

"Oh my god, did you—"

"No," Kilgrave interrupts her, " _you_ _did_."

#

There is something they never talk about: Kilgrave spent his first twelve years as the sheltered, sickly child of two scientists. Mad scientists, in his opinion. Jessica doesn’t know about that. In their brief history of saving the world, she’s witnessed the incredibly lengths parents will go to for their children. 

Regardless, Kilgrave basically grew up in a research hospital, and he has always absorbed information like a fucking sponge. So sometimes he opens his mouth and a random fact about chemistry or microbiology will trip out, and Jessica will nod like yeah, of course, she definitely already knew that about mitochondria, sure. She’s used to him dropping knowledge bombs as non-sequiturs. 

So it’s not a huge surprise when he looks at her with wide, knowing eyes—she despises that look, like he’s steeling himself for her reaction, like he’s worried about her—and says quietly, "it’s _contagious_."

She doesn’t respond, because she’s too busy sprinting down the street and stopping the guy from exposing himself in public. 

"Hey! Hey, I was fucking kidding. Stop it, you’re gonna get yourself arrested."

The guy looks up at her, blinking his way out of a confused fog (oh, God, she remembers what it’s like to be inside that fog).

"Put your dick away, for fuck’s sake," she snaps, and the guy obeys immediately.

Big cities afford anonymity, but it’s not every day you see a Green Peace canvasser trying to swallow his own penis, and a handful of passers-by have stopped to gawk. 

"Nothing to see here," Kilgrave says loudly, dispersing the crowd as she helps the guy to his feet. "Go about your business, et cetera."

She tells Green Peace that he’s gonna be fine, and then Kilgrave is hustling her away. He takes her arm and leads her in the opposite direction from where they’d been heading, and her feet follow him automatically. He takes out his phone and calls what she assumes is their Interpol contact, speaks sharply and switches from English to clipped, rapid German.  

"What just happened?" Jessica asks when he ends the call a minute later. They’re still walking and she has no idea where they’re going.

"I cancelled our meeting. I take it we have more important matters to address."

"You know that’s not what I’m talking about," she says. "How did you do that?"  

" _I_ didn’t. You did, though I suppose I deserve some credit. Or," he sets his jaw, "deserve some of the blame, depending how you’re likely to look at it."

"Kilgrave, no fucking villain riddles."

"Right, sorry. I trust you know how immunization works?

She scowls. "What?"

The traffic light changes, and she follows the crowd across the street, and Kilgrave follows her, voice low in her ear.

"Jessica. You know this." His voice is carefully modulated. If she were anyone else, he’d be forcing her to stay calm. "How do you prevent susceptibility to a virus? If you want to avoid smallpox, for example." 

"Vaccination," she says, and then immediately after: "Oh, God."

It hits her like a freight train, and Jessica _had_ actually once been hit by a freight train: same results. She wants to throw up.

"We thought you were immune to my—whatever it is you want to call it." (She usually says ‘ability,’ though he likes to say ‘charms,’ or ‘magnetism,’ because he’s terrible). "But if I had to guess," he continues, like this is a fucking crossword puzzle and not her life, "I’d say we misunderstood, and you’ve been overexposed to the virus."

"Overexposed to you," she corrects.

"Perhaps," he allows. His face is still contorted in an expression she recognizes—he’s gleeful, trying not to show it, and failing badly. His lips curl into a true smile as he says, "one way or another, you’ve caught it now."

 # 

They have to test it. She won’t accept anything else, it could just be a fluke, a coincidence. They test it all afternoon.

By five o’clock her head is swimming.

They have received free coffees from a cafe she really likes and will now never be able to return to. They have advised random passers-by to change directions, cross the next block over. They’ve told four smokers that they’re quitting right now.

They instruct a man sprawling across a park bench to sit up straight; tell a pair of teenagers necking beside the fountain to behave themselves in public. Tell a busker with a guitar to stop playing ABBA, please, dear God. 

She thinks "they," because they’re a duo, but Kilgrave hasn’t said a word. It’s her. It’s all her. 

The first time someone obeyed her unquestioningly might have been coincidence; the fifth time might have been improbable luck. They try it twenty times, twenty instructions, and by mid-afternoon she is exhausted and empty inside. She’s not prepared for this. 

She prepared for everything else that could possibly happen during six months—six years—a lifetime—with Kilgrave, but she hasn’t prepared for _this_.

"It does make sense, if you think about it," Kilgrave insists. "I only developed my ability after large doses of whatever chemicals to which I was exposed, and presumably they affected my physiology. Close proximity, extended period of time…"

She doesn’t want to think about how much time. She stopped measuring the days ages ago, when the time ran out and she stopped expecting to leave.

"You understand, don’t you, Jessica? You’re carrying it now, too." His face is flushed, and he sounds delighted. 

"I need to sit down," she says, and stalks off to the nearest bench. It’s getting dark, the park is clearing out. 

"What’s got you so upset? You know better than to misuse it."

She’s a little shocked he’d even say that; it’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting his own psychopathic inclinations.

Her mind is reeling. "We need—fuck, we need isolation, quarantine."

He scoffs. "Oh, I wouldn’t go that far."

"Can you imagine, what if we let this spread. What if Anabeth gets it?"

Anabeth is their PA, hired on through Kilgrave’s legal contacts and vetted in person by Trish. A stately blond in her mid-forties, with a clipped English accent that Kilgrave summarized as "not as posh as she’d like us to believe, but posh enough." She manages their public profile and coordinates with local law-enforcement remotely, though they have face-to-face meetings at least twice a month, by far the most time either of them spends with another specific person.

Neither of them particularly like her, but then she’s the person who arranges their media appearances, so it’s a miracle they don’t actively hate her. 

His expression sours instantly at the idea. "No, you’re right. She’ll have to go."

"What if it’s too late? We don’t know what the exposure time is, or how many people you’ve spread this to already—"

"Just one," he says firmly, "you."

"You don’t know that for sure."

"I do," he says, smoothing back her hair to press a rough kiss against her temple. He must think he’s being reassuring, but all it does is remind her of jolting awake at her desk, reliving the memory of him licking her cheek. (God, all that possessive bullshit he used to pull; he’s lucky she’s so forgiving). 

"Think about it. This came on slowly for you; ergo, it must take years of continuous exposure to incubate."

 _Ergo._ Jesus Christ, this guy.

"What about the others?" she asks. She’s a little afraid of the answer.

Not of him—never of him, not anymore, and that’s important. He couldn’t scare her again if he wanted to, if he tried. She’s made her peace with the fact that she chose this, chose to be here with him, and if he fucks it up she’s going to be the one to kill him. 

He swallows, and she sees a shadow cross his face, the ghost of the man who haunted her nightmares. "There are no others. None you need to worry about."

Someday, she’ll ask him what the record was, how long he kept his victims, how many days or weeks they endured before he got bored with them and he sent them away or worse. How many lives did he destroy before she came along? Someday she will ask; not today. 

"You _infected_ me."

That elicits a flare of temper, his infinite patience for her finally wearing thin. "It’s not as if I knew I was doing it! You can’t reasonably blame me."

She wants to, but it’s probably not going to help anything.

"Do you think it’s genetic?" he wonders aloud.

"I am _not_ having a legion of babies you can dress in purple and use to take over the world."

He cackles, the kind of wild laugh that means he’s having the best time, a better time than anyone else has ever had in the history of the world. 

"Can you imagine? We would be awful parents, oh, that’s too gruesome to even think about."

Her stomach is still in knots, but it lessens somewhat.

"Try to have some perspective—this is hardly the worst thing you could have absorbed. Be grateful I’m not that Hulk fellow, you could be turning green right now if I’d infected you with that instead."

"Sometimes you’re such a pain in the ass," she says. She’s smiling, and wishes she wasn’t, but he’s trying so hard to calm her down, she can’t help it.

"Yes, well, so are you. All that talk about how I ruined your life—I’m not contesting that," he preempts, holding up his hands. "I’m not insane. Perspective, and all that. Still, you go on about how I destroyed the person you used to be. You’ve done the same to me, for better or for worse."

She could have done without that turn of phrase, thanks. She doesn’t need him getting ideas.

He says, "Besides that, you have the upper hand here, with your own talents and mine combined. You won’t need me at all now."

"I do," she admits, shaky and lightheaded. She stands up off the bench and her knees are weak. She doesn’t want to be in charge of this situation anymore. "I need you."

He takes her by the hand and leads her back to the hotel, back to the too-large bed in the suite. 

Kilgrave locks the door and strips her gently, plies her with kisses until she’s drunk with feeling this, just _this,_ not the sinking feeling in her stomach. He lays her out and makes her come twice before their dinner reservations.

She watches it all happen from the back of her own mind, the place where she used to retreat to when he compelled her into his bed; now she settles back there for a voluntary visit, like wrapping herself in a familiar blanket. When she’s ready to face the world again, she emerges loose-limbed and comfortable to find he’s zipping her into her favorite black dress, the short one with a high slit that he hates and always says is déclassé. 

"All set, darling? Taxi’s waiting," he checks in with her.

He’s half a parody of a perfect partner, thoughtful and caring, and half—

Well. He’s just what she needs. 

#

They don’t talk about it again. It works—she knows she’s absorbed his power, and she knows how it works and that it’s not going anywhere—but she does her best not to phrase anything as a command, and they don’t talk about it.

It’s so difficult. She never thought of herself as ordering anyone around, but she uses imperative tones so much. 

"Airport, fast as you can," directed to a taxi driver, nearly gets them into a car accident. 

Worse, phrasing random things as questions is dangerous in their kind of work. 

"Can you please be quiet?" elicits slower results than "Shut up!" in the middle of a hostage negotiation.

It’s a lot more work than she expected, being so careful with her words.

# 

The day she discovers it works on him, her knees go weak and she has to reach out and clutch his arm to keep standing. 

Amsterdam: eight o’clock in the morning.

She’d told him to freeze when he moved to grab the last croissant—and it’s so silly, so them, so much the sort of thing that _would_ happen to her—and he’d literally obeyed, gone stock-still. The only movement was his eyes, blinking rapidly.

She thought he was joking, but the eyes gave him away, and his thudding pulse under her grip.

"No," she says, meaning, _no, no, this can’t be happening_. "No, don’t, you can move."

He snaps back to himself, and says "did you just—" with his eyebrows raised in disbelief. 

"I didn’t mean to," she says, terrified of what this means.

"I believe that’s my line." 

He’s strangely calm about the entire thing.

#

"Do you think it would go away if we were apart?" 

But as soon as she says it, she knows it’s impossible. What would happen if she left him? She hasn’t seriously considered it in years. Her entire purpose in life is being Jewel, and Jewel is half of a duo. Beyond that is the innate knowledge of what he would do if she left him.

Oh, not to her—he can’t hurt her, and she’s come to accept that he wouldn’t even try; she could leave him tomorrow and he’d never come near her again, if she told him not to—but the rest of the world is vulnerable, and not something he particularly holds dear. She couldn’t live with causing that kind of carnage. 

And, yes, she’d be monstrously lonely without him. This is the conditioning talking; whatever, it’s not a crime to find comfort in the familiar. 

"For you, perhaps," he allows, a dark cast to his voice that lets her know this is only a hypothetical possibility. He’s not letting her go anywhere. 

"Well, we’ll just have to live with the curiosity." 

#

They start taking fewer cases. Part of it is practicality.  If the incubation period takes years, as it did for her, then it’s unlikely they’ll spread it to anyone else, but it only makes sense to limit exposure. They do more consulting through phone and email, and they’ve built up a number of extraordinary connections over the years. If the forces of good need super-strength in Arkansas or Okinawa, they can make a phone call and make it happen without personally having to go there.

She doesn’t love the outsourcing, but it’s a necessary.

The flip side of that, less time around people, means more time together. She’s not used to being careful with him, and the effort it takes to watch her words is draining.

They argue a lot. They always have. Even when they’re getting along they exist in a vacuum of constant bickering, but now it’s different.

They take a house in Ireland for two weeks, though their case is wrapped up in six days, and she wants to stay. He thinks they ought to go to Berlin early, because he loves Berlin, and it’s so petty, such a pointless argument that turns bitter halfway through. She’d been attempting dinner, a chicken cacciatore recipe Trish made on her last visit, and she burns it badly when he distracts her.

She tells him to shut up and watches him struggle, lips sealed shut.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you can talk," she says, dimly shocked to find she means it, she _is_ sorry, she didn’t mean to hurt him. But sometimes he just won’t stop talking... 

"It’s fine," he waves her off, "it’s what I—" 

If he says _deserve_ , she’ll absolutely kill him. 

"It’s not," she interrupts. "Jesus. Okay. We have to talk about this."

"Oh, must we?"

She whacks him in the shoulder, says, "Go wait for me in the other room. I’m going to order food. What do you want?"

He says "Italian," with his brows drawn together in a murderous frown, but follows her directions exactly.

She places their order and tidies up her failed cooking experiment, washes all the dishes before she joins him in the living room. Their view is of the lake, she can’t remember what it’s called but it’s very blue and too cold to swim.

She says, "I didn’t realize how hard this was gonna be. I need you to hold me accountable."

He’s staring at her as if she’s speaking a foreign language, and she kind of is; all this time, it’s been her holding him accountable.

"Your rules apply to me now," she adds. "If you see me slip, you have to tell me."

"I don’t believe that was part of your original bargain."

"That agreement went out the window a long time ago, or else I wouldn’t still be here. Please, Kilgrave."

She hates begging almost as much as he does. Begging is what victims do.

That’s perspective for you: if there’s one thing she understands about being his captive, it’s that he never meant to hurt her. He doesn’t want her as a victim. He just didn’t know how _not_ to hurt her.

"Go on, then," he says after a moment, steepling his hands together. "You wanted honestly, and you know I don’t mind. Ask whatever you need to ask, if it will make you feel better."

She sits down heavily on the sofa beside him, and asks, "Do you regret any of it?"

He reaches out to touch her cheek and says, "I regret hurting you. I regret everything I did that made it difficult for you to trust me. I regret poisoning our future."

She rolls her eyes; he’s still so melodramatic.

"Did you ever really hate me?"

"Yes."

She waits him out, but he’s not saying more than that without prompting. Huh. Usually he is more forthcoming. 

"When did you hate me?"

He swallows, the line of his throat tensed.  "When you got up on that ledge and threatened to jump. Whenever you resisted me and threatened to hurt yourself. I hated that. I could have killed you for resisting."

She frowns. "You hated me for fighting back?"

He shakes his head. There is a fine veneer of sweat above his eyebrows. She reaches up and wipes it away with her fingertips without thinking.

"That’s a question, Kilgrave. Why did you hate me?"

"For worrying me. You threatened to hurt yourself. And I thought you might do it, if I didn’t watch carefully, and I hated you because I cared about you. I’d never cared for—for anyone—before you. I don’t think I ever will again."

She is nearly speechless. "That’s so deeply fucked up," she finally says.

"Believe me, I’m aware."

Her brain is buzzing, a million stupid questions she could ask him.

"What’s your favorite color?"

"Yellow."

"How’s my cooking?"

"Horrendous. Jessica, don’t play with me."

She says nothing. He raises an eyebrow, waiting. 

"What about me?" she asks.

"What about you," he whispers, and his hands reach out and cradle hers. "I love you. You know that."

She’s known for years that it wasn’t a façade—he’s not that good an actor—and she knows how deep it runs. She knows that when he says _love_ he also means _possess_ and _despise_ and _need_. As much as he is able to love, he loves her. 

Her feelings for him are intertwining threads of revulsion and fear and comfort and complacency, of desire and acceptance and commitment all tangled up in a knot inside her. She can’t possibly untangle it and examine each thread. 

Maybe she can’t love either.

She should ask him, ‘have you learned anything?’ Or ‘do you have even an ounce of decency?’ Or ‘did I cure you, at all? Is this just an act?’

But she doesn’t really want to know, in case it ruins things, or in case it doesn’t. She says, "thank you," and closes her eyes. After a moment, his arms come up around her, pulls her close, and there’s nothing more to say. 

 


End file.
